The Ambassador's Son Page 21

  “Go stand beside the gig,” she ordered the boy. “If we start to go under, cut the lines and climb aboard. It should float off. I’ll be along if I can.”

  John-Bull did as he was told, his hands held out to his sides as if on a tightrope, making a zigzag path across the rolling deck until he reached the gig. Though he made an attempt to look serious, the pitch of the deck soon elicited an excited grin, and he happily yodeled as sea water surged around his boots. My husband, we did a very good thing in bringing this boy into the world, Felicity thought fleetingly, before getting back to the task at hand, that of defeating God and saving the Minerva, tasks she was certain she could accomplish, even with fever.

  She sorted out where they were. Following her suggestion, the women-crazy American sailors had run the Minerva north, taking the old schooner across the shallows between the Russells and Mary Island. She had anticipated that Colonel Burr, upon discovering her absence, might send aircraft and ships to look for her. That was why she had taken the Minerva well away from the usual flight paths and sea-lanes. After nightfall, according to her plan, they would come up north of Mary, then cross the Slot under the cover of darkness and slip in beneath the lee of Santa Isabel Island, a fortunate island that had so far escaped the war. Then they would cross over to Choiseul Island, another place so far mostly untouched by battles, and then strike back across the Slot toward Vella Lavella, and thence to Noa-Noa. According to her calculations, the route would have them on her island in two days. She had told the Americans the voyage would take but a single day, but then, of course, she had lied.

  As it had turned out, only two of the sailors had elected to try the adventure, the leader, named Emmett, who confidently took the wheel, and a handsome, curly-haired boy named Rusty. Both seemed like rum chaps, willing to do just about anything for a Marie. Felicity had lied about the Maries on Noa-Noa, too, of course. Most of them had been brought over from Malaita on a blackbird expedition in 1936 and were considered even then too old and ugly for marriage. But, she told herself, these boys were desperate, and if they wanted the old girls and the old girls wanted them, who was she to deny either party? The only thing that mattered to Felicity at the moment, other than John-Bull, was getting to Noa-Noa, and that meant they had to get through the storm. Not an hour before, she’d first smelled the rise of a foul breeze off the New Georgia Sound, and knew what it meant. “See yon bank of gray clouds, low on the horizon?” she’d told Emmett. “It means a blow. Steer a bit to the east, get in the lee of the Russells, and it should skirt by us.”

  “Missus, you’re wrong,” Emmett had replied, though politely. The man, being an American, was an ignoramus, though of a typically cheerful and good heart. “I think those clouds will burn off long before they reach us. And if we go over to the Russells, we’ll lose hours.”

  Of course, the clouds hadn’t burned off. Why did some men have such a difficult time listening to her? The clouds had coalesced in a rush and swept down on them in a howl of wind and rain that struck her skin so hard it felt like sharp pebbles. Rusty had tried to stay on deck, but it turned out he wasn’t much of a sailor. Holding his mouth, he had disappeared below. Her three Malaitans chose to huddle on deck near the gig, jabbering among themselves. They were no fools. The sailors had brought the lifeboat aboard, doubtlessly having stolen it from the American navy. Unlike the Minerva, the gig at least appeared seaworthy.

  “Run into the wind, you fool, lest we broach!” Felicity cried to Emmett, but the man kept the bow stubbornly askance to the ranks of advancing white horses. His eyes were red-rimmed from blinking into the shattered waves of seawater that kept pounding them. “I’m trying to get closer to Mary Island!” he yelled. “Maybe we can find us a lee, missus! If not, I think this tub is going down. We didn’t do that good a job patching her up.”

  “Bloody hell!” Felicity snarled. “Now, listen to me, Emmett. You must turn into the wind and head up toward the Russells.”

  “We’d never make it there,” Emmett replied in a sorrowful tone. “Our only chance is Mary!”

  Felicity allowed the truth to settle in, inserting itself between the wild meanderings of her fever-addled mind. The Minerva was going to sink. All right. She was going to sink. What should happen next? The gig. The gig was the answer. But it was not going to be so simple as getting John-Bull and her and the Americans in the thing and casting off. There were her Malaitans to consider. It was a consideration that occurred nearly every day on the Solomon Island plantations. Usually there was nothing but sullen acquiescence to the mastah and the missus, but then, on another day, there would be revolt, and revenge, and death. The storm had given her Malaitans an opportunity to take control of their own destiny. They could kill the whites and take the gig. Would they risk it?

  Felicity looked at the three sullen men huddled behind the gig, and they looked back at her. Significantly, she touched the holster on her belt that held her Webley, a six-cartridge revolver. Bryce had given it to her when she’d first come out to the Solomons, and it provided her some comfort. The Webley used soft lead bullets that could instantly stop a man as if he’d been hit in the face with a hard-swung bat. She’d seen Bryce use the pistol against a Malaitan who’d murdered a fellow wog for a twist of tobacco. She and Bryce had tracked the man down and discovered him sitting on a log, smoking the tobacco. Spying them, he had jumped up and made a furious charge with his machete. Bryce had shot him but once, a bullet to the chest that struck the wog with such furious power that it lifted him into the air. She could still see the white bottoms of his feet as he fell heavily on his back. Upon inspection, it could be seen that the Malaitan’s heart had literally been torn out. One moment he’d been running and screaming, the next he was profoundly, and correctly, dead.

  Felicity would have allowed herself a little longer to recall the nostalgic event, except a huge wave fell upon the Minerva’s port side, sending a flood of foaming seawater plowing across the deck, tearing Emmett screaming from the wheel and flinging the Malaitans, their mouths opened in silent supplication, into the stern scuppers. John-Bull, smart boy, ducked through the water and swung up into the gig. Felicity hung on to a stanchion, the water clutching at her clothes and hair, until finally, just short of drowning, she pushed her face out of the water just as another huge curler fell on them.

  This time the steamer rolled but did so very slowly. Rising from the water again, Felicity looked aft and saw that John-Bull had climbed out of the gig and was cutting its lines. The sky had turned bright yellow and the sea a brilliant purple and the wind-voice cried to her over and over, Die, die, die . . .

  “Not yet!” Felicity yelled at the wind. Then she noticed the Minerva was scarcely rolling, even while the sea did its best to pitch her around. That could mean only one thing. The patch the Americans had placed over the hole in the bow had burst through. Tons of water were flooding in, and there was nothing that could be done. The Minerva was headed down into the Solomon Sea, and she would not be coming back.

  Felicity saw one of the Malaitans, the huge, muscled man called Arenga, stagger back from the stern toward the gig. His lap-lap was blown tightly against his muscled legs, water dripped from his flat nose, and his eyes, yellow in the milky light, were huge. For a moment, they fixed on Felicity and then on the gig and John-Bull. The two other Malaitans, the short one called Kuro and the old one named Ramu, were also making their way toward the gig. Arenga grasped John-Bull by the poncho and flung him aside. Then Arenga noticed Felicia again, mainly because she had the Webley stuck in his ribs.

  “My word!” he croaked. “Why you stick’m gun along me? Arenga good fella boy! Let gig go along water.”

  “I know you, Arenga. You pier-head jumper!” Felicia retorted sternly, pushing the pistol hard into his ribs. “Now Arenga steal’m boat belong me.”

  Arenga did not answer the charge. Felicity supposed he was thinking things over. Now she noticed that his huge hand, his fingers as big as bananas, was gripping a short knife with a stout
bone handle. The other two Malaitans hung on to the remaining taut lines of the gig and watched her, apparently waiting to see what Arenga would do. John-Bull got to his feet. “Kill him, Mother,” he said, and it made her proud.

  But she did not kill the Malaitan. She still wanted his strong back and strong arms to make the copra on Noa-Noa. “Now, Arenga, you listen,” she said in a stern tone. “All fellas belong gig. Arenga, Kuro, Ramu, me, John-Bull, Emmett, Rusty. We will forget all this. You good fella bimeby, savvy?”

  The Miranda lurched, but Felicity kept the gun stuck hard into the big man’s ribs. The hatch suddenly opened, and Rusty climbed out, followed by gushing water. “She’s going down! Launch the lifeboat!” he screamed.

  Ramu suddenly had a small ax in his hand. The Malaitans had stowed away weapons, no doubt stolen on Melagi. He walked toward Rusty and, without hesitating, buried the ax in the American’s head, then wrenched it free amidst a spout of blood just as Arenga knocked the Webley from Felicity’s hand, then pushed her away. She staggered backward, stunned by the force of his push, but John-Bull went after the gun, beating Kuro to it. He aimed it at the little man, who recoiled with his hands in front of his face. John-Bull swept the snout of the pistol toward Arenga, and the big man hesitated long enough for John-Bull to cross the deck to his mother and hand the pistol to her.

  Arenga looked at the pistol pointed once more at him and lapsed into an expression of disappointment. “Now, Arenga,” Felicity said, wiping away with the back of her hand the sweat from her fever and the rain from her face and the trickle of blood from her nose. “It is time for you to die.”

  “No,” Arenga said in an arrogant tone. “Missus no kill’m Arenga. Arenga good fella, washee-washee, all time on gig. Mary Island, she many mile. You need Arenga.”

  “You, Ramu!” Felicity said, catching a murderous glance from the little man. “What name you kill’m Rusty?”

  “Ramu no kill’m Rusty,” Ramu said, even as he held his bloody ax and the little American sailor rolled on the deck in a mixture of his own blood and seawater.

  “But I saw you!”

  “No kill’m Rusty,” Ramu replied stubbornly.

  “Mother!” John-Bull warned.

  It was Kuro. He had come up with a short sword, a Malayan kris with a long curved blade, and had advanced within a step of her. He sliced at her pistol hand. She drew it back, and the sharp steel swooped past. Without hesitation, she shot Kuro between his eyes, and he was flung off his feet, his face turned to pink mush. ‘Take the knife from Arenga, John, then climb into the gig,” she said in a calm voice. “You, Ramu, toss the ax away.”

  Arenga allowed the knife to be taken away. Ramu, with a hiss of regret, threw his ax into the sea. The Minerva’s deck was awash, the water running across Felicity’s ankles. John-Bull cut the remaining lines on the gig, and he, Felicity, and the two Malaitans jumped aboard, and the gig swirled off. Felicity looked over her shoulder and watched the schooner go down. The Minerva groaned and moaned as if afraid of her fate. Then Felicity pondered Arenga and Ramu, who sat at the oars and pondered her in return.

  Felicity still wanted the Malaitans. They were the reason, after all, that she had left Noa-Noa. They could be worked very hard if properly handled. When Felicity pointed the pistol at Arenga, he cried, “Missy shoot’m Arenga along belly!”

  You’re wrong, Felicity thought. I’ll not shoot you in your big broad belly. I need a head shot with the likes- of you. “Arenga, you do as I say! You and Kuro, washee, washee!” She made rowing motions. “Good fella missus she no shoot’m. I give you the word of your wog god!”

  The storm was playing out, and Felicity knew the worst was over. Storms in the Solomons were sudden and violent, but then they would simply evaporate and the scorching sun would blaze anew. Rain swept across the boat, then stopped as if someone had turned off a spigot. Overhead, the clouds were busily reorganizing themselves, and suddenly there was a slat of blue in the sky and a beam of hot white light burst forth, drawing steam out of Felicity’s blouse. The sudden appearance of the sun seemed to give her fever new energy. It coursed through her body and covered her mind like a hot, muddy river.

  Felicity forced herself to concentrate. They needed to get to land before dark, else they would be thrown against the reefs of Mary Island and surely perish. “Washee, washee!” she yelled at the Malaitans, and pointed north. Arenga and Ramu nodded and looked almost cheerful as they started pulling the oars. She took the tiller as the sky glimmered ever bluer overhead and the clouds scudded off. The gig moved past Emmett’s floating body, spread-eagled on his face. Felicity could see he had a horrendous wound in his back. She realized he must have been swept into the stern with the Malaitans and they had quickly and quietly dispatched him. Felicity pretended not to notice. There was no reason to stir up more trouble.

  “Emmett he moves!” Arenga suddenly cried. Felicity looked and saw that Emmett was indeed flopping around, but not of his own volition. Sharks were working him over. Now she saw several of the ugly brutes, their triangular gray fins cutting cleanly through the flattening water.

  “Washee!” Felicity insisted to both the men, but they had stopped rowing and were just watching the sharks tear Emmett’s body to pieces. “Washee or bad fella shark will kaikai along you, my word!”

  Arenga and Ramu looked at her, then began once more to draw on the oars. They hadn’t gotten far before a big shark bumped against the gig. Arenga and Ramu stopped rowing and cringed each time the fish shoved the boat. “Boat strong,” she told them. “Shark no belong boat, no kai-kai along good fellas. Washee!”

  Arenga picked Ramu up and tossed him overboard. The man screamed a hideous scream, then disappeared underwater before coming back up, flailing desperately for the boat. For a moment, it appeared as if he might make it, but then Felicity saw a gray shape loom behind him and it was as if he’d been hit by an electric shock. His head flew up, his eyes rolled back into his head, his mouth turned down into a great frown, and he subsided into a bloody froth.

  “Arenga, my word!” Felicity cried.

  Arenga grinned broadly. “Big fella shark kai-kai Ramu. No kai-kai Arenga.”

  It was such a declaration of selfishness that Felicity was quite at a loss for words. Now she saw Arenga fix on her and John-Bull. “No, Arenga,” she said, but he came at them anyway, his huge arms spreading open to take her. Felicity fired the pistol at his face, but she only caught his ear, tearing it clean away. Ignoring the blood streaming from the wound, he reached for her again, and to her horror she dropped the pistol. Cursing, she turned the tiller to impede him, but he swept it aside and clutched her shoulders with both hands. She felt his terrible strength and knew that he was fully capable of lifting her up and tossing her into the sea with just one fluid motion. John-Bull tried to break the big man’s grip, but Arenga knocked him aside with a knee to his chin. The boy fell backward into the gig, moaning.

  Felicity’s hand darted for her boot, where Bryce’s advice had placed her final defense: a thin blade. She slipped it out and with all her remaining strength swung it to where Bryce had told her to stick it if ever attacked by a wog. The blade was very sharp, and it went under Arenga’s lap-lap and through the complicated organs there and sank very deep. Felicity felt hot blood pour like boiling water over her hand. She withdrew the knife and struck again. Arenga, a dumb expression on his flat face, staggered backward, stepping on John-Bull and raining blood down on the boy. Arenga looked at her with a kind of bemused curiosity, then clutched what remained of his manhood and fell into a sitting-up position. He started to sob, and to her surprise, Felicity felt her heart go out to him.

  Another big shark chose that moment to strike the side of the boat, nearly knocking it over. Arenga tried to get up, then collapsed, gurgling into the lapping, bloody seawater in the bottom of the boat. Felicity sat down on the stern of the gig and tried to make sense of not only what had happened but what must happen next.

  Then a monster like Felicity co
uld not imagine rose at the bow, its huge triangular teeth tearing at the wood, ripping the planks away. Other, smaller sharks joined the huge creature. Together, they managed to rip a large, jagged hole through which flushed seawater and snapping jaws.

  “John, get up,” she commanded. “Come here. Sit beside me.”

  John-Bull crawled until he was beside her. His head was bleeding. “Mother, are we to be eaten by the sharks?”

  Felicity’s eyes fell on the last convulsions of Arenga just as a small shark pushed through the hole and grasped his foot in its nasty red mouth and twisted it off. It backed out with its prize. Another shark snapped at Arenga’s bloody ankle through the hole.

  “John, help me,” Felicity ordered, and grabbed Arenga by an arm while John-Bull grabbed the other. Together, they drew him toward the stern, away from the hole. The sharks bumped and snapped through the opening.

  All night they drifted, while Felicity gave in to the fever. She woke just as she saw John-Bull scramble out of reach of big snapping jaws erupting through the hole in the bow. Arenga’s torso was jerked away. Now all she and the boy could do was huddle in the stern while the gig slowly eased lower into the water.

  “Mother, give me the pistol,” John-Bull said, and she gave it up and subsided into a complicated dream that had Colonel Burr and the big, stupid man named Josh Thurlow somehow hosting a party on the old plantation at Melagi. It made no sense, but then, it didn’t have to. It was the fever talking to her, telling her of a different place, and a different time . . .

  John-Bull stood before his mother, ready to defend her against whatever came into the boat. Four times a shark pushed through the hole, and four times he fired. After the sharks were hit, the water around the gig-turned a bright, phosphorescent blue that turned pink from the writhing fish cannibalizing one of their own. He had but one bullet left when a vast animal, the biggest yet, raised itself over the gig, striking the little boat hard. He fired, and the creature slithered back. The last shot provoked Felicity from her dream. She heard a voice coming from above. “John-Bull, little John-Bull,” it said. “Come here.”